by Shiv Aroor
At 5.30 the following morning, as examination drills began again, smoke was reported from Compartment 3 where Lt Manoranjan was in charge. Submarines have an emergency protocol called Savdhaan (attention), which kicks in in the event of real trouble and is differentiated from simulated emergency drills. An alarm began to blare, drawing the entire submarine’s attention.
‘Manoranjan immediately initiated the Savdhaan alarm procedure and rushed through the compartment towards the source of the smoke,’ says a sailor who was present at the time. ‘Compartment 3 has a lot of electrical equipment, so he knew he had to move quickly before things got worse. Compartments in a Kilo are very cramped, so a fire can quickly spiral out of control. Manoranjan wasted no time.’
Within minutes, Lt Cdr Kapish had jogged through the narrow corridor of the submarine, arriving in Compartment 3 as the smoke was getting thicker.
‘The smoke that was coming out had possibly heated some of the panelling running behind the equipment, and there was a short circuit in the cables, which began to burn, leading to even denser black smoke emanating in Compartment 3,’ says Commodore Ravi.
Finding his way through the smoke, Lt Cdr Kapish found Lt Manoranjan hunting for the source of the smoke and fire so he could try and contain it as quickly as possible. The first thing both officers did was get the other men in Compartment 3 out, just as the smoke became unbearably thick.
‘They forced us to leave the compartment, so we moved to an upper deck,’ says the sailor who was in Compartment 3. ‘As I exited, I could see them through the smoke. Manoranjan was using the communication console to speak to the CO to tell him that the situation was very serious.’
It was critical, actually. Compartment 3 housed a portion of Sindhuratna ’s electric batteries and sat on top of another compartment that contained more batteries. A fire in a compartment with batteries could be catastrophic.
‘The presence of batteries in that compartment made this a very tricky situation,’ says Commodore Ravi. ‘When the batteries charge, they give out hydrogen gas in small quantities, which usually get burned off. But if its quantity is not controlled, hydrogen is a highly explosive gas, and with a fire nearby, it could lead to a catastrophic situation. By virtue of being electrical officers, Kapish and Manoranjan would have known that, and therefore were trying to identify the seat of the fire, while at the same time getting everyone else out of the compartment.’
Receiving another call from Manoranjan about the worsening situation, CO Capt. Sinha took a call to take Sindhuratna to the surface.
‘There was a major advantage in breaking the surface at that point,’ says Commodore Ravi. ‘With the submarine stationary and above water, there was a better chance of the smoke escaping from open hatches.’
Lt Cdr Kapish and Lt Manoranjan pushed eleven sailors out of Compartment 3, despite every one of them volunteering to stay and help. The sailors remember that Compartment III was nearly impossible to be in when they were pushed out by the two young officers, who refused to leave.
‘Sambhaal lenge (We will manage), just get to the upper deck and wait for us,’ Lt Cdr Kapish told the sailors as he and Lt Manoranjan got them out of Compartment 3.
‘There is a certain sense of responsibility that officers have, and being officers, I guess they felt they were duty-bound to remain within the compartment and fix the problem, while getting everyone else out,’ says Commodore Ravi.
Both the officers battled the smoke and continued to try locating the source of the fire, seemingly unconcerned about the harm the smoke was doing to them with each breath. As the minutes passed, the deadly smoke got thicker.
‘The last anyone saw them, Kapish and Manoranjan were valiantly fighting the fire and smoke,’ says Commodore Ravi. ‘At some point, they may have possibly lost consciousness and by that time, Compartment 3 had already been sealed from the other side. Communication from the compartment had also stopped. The two boys had ensured that everything flammable that could allow the fire to spread had been removed from the compartment along with the eleven sailors.’
For all their efforts, the two officers couldn’t put out the fire—the material that was burning was more smouldering than fully ablaze—but by removing other equipment, they had ensured that the fire didn’t spread.
Just before the Sindhuratna surfaced, the CO descended the decks of his submarine for a first-hand inspection of the situation, but was forced to return to the upper decks after inhaling the dangerous smoke. Once the submarine surfaced, he got some of the crew members to put on breathing apparatuses so they could go back down to check on the two officers who were no longer answering calls on the submarine communication system.
Four separate rescue parties were sent down to Compartment 3, but were forced to retreat. The approach to the compartment had become extremely hot, and it was no longer possible for the sailors to go anywhere near it. And with the submarine’s electrical mains turned off as a precautionary measure at the surface, the rescue teams were walking in total darkness with thick black smoke engulfing them.
‘We couldn’t see our hands if we held them out in front of our faces,’ says a sailor who was sent down with one of the rescue parties. ‘Kapish and Manoranjan had pushed us out of that compartment and had refused to allow us to stay. And they refused to come out till the job was done. If you had seen and felt that smoke, you would not have believed that someone had voluntarily remained in that compartment to fight it.’
With repeated attempts to reach Compartment 3 proving dangerous and futile, and the heat and smoke only increasing, the CO of Sindhuratna was faced with a terrible dilemma.
‘It had now come to a point where the CO had to look to the safety of the rest of the men on board and the submarine itself,’ says Commodore Ravi. ‘It must have been the most difficult decision to make, since the two young officers were not accounted for, and there was no absolute clarity on their condition. It must have been a very distressing and difficult decision.’
As a last resort, 4 hours after the smoke was first detected, Capt. Sinha ordered the freon gas fire suppression system to be activated. The action would completely seal the submarine’s compartments, suck out all the oxygen and pump freon gas at high pressure to quell the smouldering fire. After the freon gas was administered, Compartment 3 remained sealed as a precaution.
The Sindhuratna had surfaced, but it was in distress. The CO authorized a message to be sent out to the Western Naval Command headquarters, requesting emergency assistance. Within the hour, a Sea King helicopter arrived over the submarine, flying back with seven sailors who had taken seriously ill after inhaling the noxious fumes of Compartment 3. The helicopter would fly them straight to the INS Asvini naval hospital on Mumbai’s southern tip. A naval fast attack craft (FAC) was also diverted towards Sindhuratna , picking up more of those affected by the smoke.
The submarine was now practically a floating shell, all its systems powered down as a safety precaution. A naval Sukanya-class patrol vessel arrived on the scene to tow the submarine back to Mumbai. In Delhi, the Sindhuratna incident would shake the highest levels of the Indian Navy. Taking moral responsibility for the incident, coming as it did just six months after the Sindhurakshak tragedy, then Chief of Naval Staff, an anti-submarine warfare specialist, Admiral Devendra Kumar Joshi, resigned, becoming the first Indian Navy chief to do so. The Navy’s vice chief at the time, Vice Admiral Robin Dhowan, would take charge as interim chief with immediate effect, becoming Chief of Naval Staff two months later.
Limping home with its compartments still sealed, the Sindhuratna would be back at the Mumbai naval dockyard the following day, on 27 February.
Once docked, the submarine was evacuated. The compartments were then unsealed and ventilated with high-pressure systems to drive out any residual gas or smoke. Later that evening, a team of naval personnel finally descended the decks to Compartment 3.
‘The team opened Compartment 3 and immediately saw both their bodies,’ says Commodore
Ravi. ‘Kapish was found near the electrical equipment. Manoranjan was found near the possible source of the fire. It looked like they had been fighting to remedy the situation to the point when they passed out. We will never get to know their side of the story. What we do know is they fought till the end, not for a moment thinking of giving up. They pushed eleven sailors out from that compartment, but by securing that area and ensuring the fire did not reach the battery pits, they essentially saved all ninety-two people on board that day. They saved the submarine.’
Thirty-six hours after the probable time of their deaths, the families of both the officers in Delhi and Jamshedpur were notified. Still in profound shock, an Indian Navy board of inquiry would immediately begin investigations. To lead the difficult probe, the Navy would hand-pick an officer, Rear Admiral Soonil Bhokare, who, in 1988, was part of the first crew of the Sindhuratna , and the senior-most officer to have served on board.
In the national media, a controversy would explode over suggestions that the Sindhuratna ’s batteries were dangerously old, and that government red tape had slowed the replacement of critical safety equipment. With a national election around the corner, the tragedy would briefly showcase the political animosities between the government of the day and the opposition, which had reached fever pitch. Within the military, there would be a call for accountability all the way up to the Ministry of Defence.
As it turned out, the batteries on board Sindhuratna were not to blame for the fire, but a failure in a regeneration unit in Compartment 3.
‘The batteries being old was certainly an issue, but this particular fire wasn’t because of the batteries,’ says Commodore Ravi. ‘What happens is when a submarine is submerged, there is a steady build-up of carbon dioxide (CO2) inside it. Now, if you’re in a situation where you cannot surface for operational reasons, the regeneration compound (RC) essentially absorbs the CO2. This process gives out heat and also smoke if it comes in contact with seawater. It’s possible that some seawater entered the submarine, causing the smoke and heat. These RC boxes are fitted very close to submarine cables. One of the boxes may have caught fire or the heat might have been so great that the cables associated with it gave way, leading to a short circuit.’
By 4 March, the Navy would release information through a press release to battle allegations about expired batteries, saying, ‘The batteries presently installed on Sindhuratna have till date completed about 113 cycles, as against 200 cycles available for exploitation. The batteries which were being exploited by Sindhuratna at the time of the incident were [therefore] operationally in-date.’ 2
Commodore Ravi, who has commanded the INS Sindhughosh , says, ‘While the batteries were not the culprit, there was always a threat. The older the battery, the higher the percentage of hydrogen discharge. That’s a real threat that Kapish and Manoranjan were aware of.’
The Sindhuratna remained in harbour for two months, and an extensive exercise was conducted to re-cable and rebuild many of the interiors that had been destroyed by smoke and flame. The submarine remains in service.
On 15 August 2014, the Sindhuratna ’s two young electrical officers were decorated with a posthumous Shaurya Chakra, India’s third-highest peacetime gallantry award. Their citations would acknowledge what they had truly done.
Lt Cdr Kapish’s Shaurya Chakra citation concludes with, ‘The officer sacrificed his life keeping the safety of the submarine and personnel above his own. His act of courage and bravery was beyond the call of duty and thus in keeping with the highest traditions of the Indian Navy and the time-honoured military adage “Service before Self”.’
Lt Manoranjan’s citation says, ‘The officer laid down his life keeping with his responsibility as the compartment officer, safety of the submarine and personnel above his own. His singular act of courage and bravery resulted in the damage being contained, casualties being minimized and extensive structural damage to the submarine being averted. His valour and dedication is in keeping with the highest traditions of the Indian Navy and ethos of the officer corp.’
For the two families, though, life stands terribly still.
‘I cannot imagine what it must have been like inside the submarine, and I am haunted by it,’ says Lt Cdr Kapish’s father, naval veteran Cdr Ishwar Singh. ‘He was a great boy and made us proud at every stage of his life. Wherever he has gone, whatever he has done. He fought till the very end like a true soldier. He did whatever he could to save the lives of his fellow sailors, the men under his charge. Everybody doesn’t get a chance like this—to face such a threat and prove their valour. And when he confronted that situation, he faced it with immense courage and died a brave man. He was a true hero.’
Hours after the gallantry award was announced, Lt Manoranjan’s mother, Rukmani Devi, would speak to journalists through tears of sorrow and rage.
‘What is the use of this award if the submarine wasn’t safe to be in?’ she would ask. ‘If the government wants to know what I want, then let me say I want my boy back. Can they give me my boy back?’
Time barely heals such wounds. Today, Lt Manoranjan’s father, Subedar Navin Kumar Chaudhary, says, ‘Jab tak saans chalegi, woh ghaav toh rahega humare dil mein (As long as we are alive, the wounds will remain fresh). But our heart swells with pride knowing he saved so many lives. We miss him every day and we are sure that the men whose lives he saved that day also think about our boy and miss him.’
Lt Manoranjan’s younger brother, Sumant, was also headed into the armed forces. He had cleared the written examination for NDA and was to appear for the Service Selection Board (SSB) interview when the tragedy on board the Sindhuratna occurred. His shattered parents barred him from going for that interview, refusing to allow him to join the Army.
Lt Manoranjan had been cleared for a promotion to the rank of Lieutenant Commander at the time of his death.
In the most terrible twist of fate, tragedy would return to Lt Cdr Kapish’s family four months after they lost their son. They would lose their second son, Ashish, to a heart attack. Their third son, Manish, is twenty-six.
‘Kapish was a very precious child,’ says his father. ‘He was born in 1986, seven years after we lost two infant sons. Kapish was very special and we had taken good care of him. Whatever he has done, he has brought glory to us. Life has been very hard. Now I am left with only one child. We can’t do anything. We have to bear it.’
On 26 February every year, as two families hold small memorial events for their sons, the crew of the Sindhuratna doesn’t forget either. Over the course of the day, when their duties allow them a spare moment, every man descends in turns to Compartment 3.
There, they stand for a minute before two tiny framed pictures of two officers, who saved an entire crew while sacrificing their own lives.
6
‘There Are More Terrorists Inside, Sir!’
Captain Pawan Kumar
Shopian, Jammu and Kashmir
20 February 2016
At 2.20 in the afternoon of 20 February 2016, Capt. Pawan Kumar sat back in a metal chair at a secret temporary base in the freezing wilderness outside Shopian in south Kashmir. He had arrived an hour before in a jeep with five men from his unit of ten months, the Army’s 10 Para Special Forces. Dressed in a black hoodie, black combat trousers and an olive bomber jacket, he was thoughtful.
He had turned twenty-three a month ago, but his dishevelled beard and exhaustion made him look older. As he sat there awaiting orders for a new mission, he pulled out his iPhone from the pocket of his trousers and began scrolling through a news feed he had made it a habit to glance through at least once a day. That afternoon, his phone’s screen threw up picture after picture from two places that meant something to him.
The first were images of groups of angry men setting fire to vehicles and smashing property near Capt. Pawan’s home in Haryana’s Jind district. The violence was part of a protest by Haryana’s dominant Jat community, which had mobilized aggressively and with increasing violenc
e to demand reservation in government jobs. Capt. Pawan squinted at the images—many of the places looked familiar. He had grown up there, but had left home to join the military after school.
The second set of images were from Delhi’s Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU), where the student protests that had begun ten days earlier had intensified into a high-pitched controversy. Some students had held a high-decibel protest to mark the third death anniversary of Mohammed Afzal Guru, an Indian teacher from Kashmir who had been convicted and hanged for aiding a Pakistani terror attack on India’s Parliament in 2001. The protests had exploded into a national controversy in the media and the political arena after some among the protesters seemed to call for ‘freedom’ from India and a ‘breakup’ of the country. The campus looked familiar, though Capt. Pawan had only been there twice. As a graduate of NDA, he had received a degree from JNU like all cadets who become commissioned officers. It was therefore, in effect, his alma mater.
He clicked the phone shut and glanced at his watch, looking out through the small window to the left of where he sat. A slow breeze rustled a row of chinar trees near the perimeter of the camp. Then, he tapped his phone on again, raised his right arm and took a selfie. But he wasn’t looking into the camera. His head bent, his expression was of bored gloominess, staring at the floor.
He looked at the picture for a moment, then posted it to his Facebook profile. When the app prompted him for a caption, Capt. Pawan thought for a moment. Then he keyed in:
‘Kisi ko reservation chahiye toh kisi ko azadi,
Bhai humme kuchh nahi chahiye bhai,
Bas apni razai’
(Some want reservation, some want freedom,
Man, I want nothing,
But for my blanket)
He looked at the post for a moment, smiled to himself and clicked the phone off. Sitting back in the chair, he closed his eyes for the first time that day. An afternoon siesta was the furthest thing from his mind, but a few minutes of stillness were welcome. When they arrived at Shopian earlier that day, he and his men knew they had essentially been placed on hunting duty. The villages that dotted the landscape beyond the forest that hid his temporary base were an uninterrupted hotbed of local militancy, armed and funded from across the LoC by terror groups based in Pakistan. Any moment, Capt. Pawan expected to hear either from the superiors in his unit or from the J&K Police Special Operations Group (SOG), teams of which prowled the villages of the area sniffing out terror hideouts and weapon dumps.
